


like real people do

by bottledbasil



Category: Lucifer (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel Wings, Angst, Anxiety, Crossover, F/M, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Linda Cinematic Universe, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nihilism, POV Castiel (Supernatural), Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, but mostly cas, dean and luci get some pov chapters too, i promise it ends happily though, i'm using this to project bc i refuse to go to real therapy, no beta we go to superhell like homosexual angels of the lord amen, you just have to sit through a lot of angst first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28394907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledbasil/pseuds/bottledbasil
Summary: During a case in Los Angeles gone almost-wrong, Castiel has what Sam later tells him is a "panic attack," and despite his constant reassurance that it was a minor vessel malfunction and everything is fine,really, Sam urges him to reach out to somebody. That somebody ends up being one Dr. Linda Martin, who is amused (but not surprised) to find yet another celestial being in her office. Through her—and his endlessly frustrating brother—Castiel begins to understand all the ways in which he is human; against the backdrop of a brewing celestial war and falling in love with his best friend, of course, because his life has never been easy.
Relationships: Castiel & Amenadiel, Castiel & Linda Martin, Castiel & Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Castiel & Mazikeen, Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 34
Kudos: 111
Collections: Crossover fanfics and ships... because why not?





	1. Homework

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agaytoremembr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agaytoremembr/gifts).



> I would like to preface this fic by saying that I have watched all of _Lucifer_ twice but have not watched _Supernatural_ once. The only episodes of _Supernatural_ I have allowed myself to sit through are the finale as it aired (huge mistake) and "Scoobynatural," and any others I might watch will be the result of my Discord friends prompting me to and not of my own volition, because knowing the pay off is, well, that finale, blows and I refuse. All of this is to say: I'm sorry if I fuck up, because I definitely will, and I'm also sorry if this doesn't fit into any canon timeline anywhere. Cas has Fallen, Lucifer and Chloe are together but the Season 5 finale hasn't happened yet so Michael is off sulking somewhere—that's the only timeline you're going to get, I'm afraid. I just really, desperately wanted a fic where Castiel went to therapy with Linda because, well, it's what he deserves, and then it turned into Destiel because it's what they deserve! This fic is the culmination of the hours upon hours I've spent bugging the shit out of [agaytoremembr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agaytoremembr/pseuds/agaytoremembr), and I couldn't have done it without them. Love you, buddy <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warning:** mild discussion of a panic attack.

Castiel ran his thumb over the address Sam had given him, looking up for the third time to confirm that he was, in fact, at the right place; Dean might have called it “stalling,” but he called it “verifying his location.” He let out an unsteady sigh before finally pushing on the heavy doors that lead inward, resisting the urge to certify where he was for a fourth time. A woman—the receptionist, he presumed—looked up as the gust of air shuffled the papers on her desk, greeting him with a warm smile. 

“You must be here for Dr. Martin. Castiel, yes?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, a bit startled by the instant recognition. He stood awkwardly in the entryway until the receptionist beckoned him forward, pushing a clipboard across the large desk she sat at as he stepped tentatively towards her. 

“She’s finishing up with another patient now, but she’ll be ready in just a moment. While you’re waiting, if you could fill out these forms,” she gestured towards the clipboard again and handed him a pen, still beaming, “that would be great.” She turned back to her computer, and Castiel took the clipboard and went to sit but was halted as the receptionist spoke again. “Oh! One last thing: could I get your last name? I don’t believe I caught it during our phone call.” 

“I don’t—” And then he caught himself, because he had been getting good at that. “Novak. Castiel Novak.”

“Wonderful.” 

He gave her a small nod and a smile before sitting down in one of the lobby chairs, crossing his legs while his foot bounced idly. The lobby itself wasn’t very large, furnished only by a couple of chairs and side-tables, all varying shades of beige or green. There was a mini-fridge at one end, with a water-cooler and what looked like a plate of cookies to accompany it, but considering Castiel didn’t like the taste of most things he let his eyes flick back to the form he had been given. He started scanning the first page, snorting as he realized he didn’t have answers to half the questions asked, if not less. He had told Sam that he wanted to go alone, but now he was musing that he probably _should_ have taken him up on his offer to tag along, so he could fill this paperwork out for him. Sam was a lot better at lying on the legal front than he was, mostly because he understood the human legal system and the intricacies of social security and Castiel didn’t. 

He flipped to the next page, finding the questions to be much more manageable than those on the first, so he started there instead. 

_What life factors lead you to consider therapy?_

He figured just writing “having emotions” and moving on was enough, because whoever ultimately read this form was probably not interested in the word for word transcription of the conversations he had had with Sam that had led to this point. Well, emphasis on their most recent conversation. Whatever. Moving on.

_Have you ever been to therapy before?_

Beating up the people who wronged him was therapeutic, but he had been told that was not _therapy,_ per se, so he wrote “no.” Next question. 

_How did you first hear about this office?_

Oh. That was easy. 

Sam.

Castiel was interrupted in his writings by the feeling of a heavy presence standing over him, and he looked up, disquieted. A woman dressed in tight leather was walking past him, dark brown hair hanging loosely down around her exposed shoulders. The shift caught her attention and she narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, as if sensing the same strangeness he did, before continuing out the door.

“Castiel?”

Without time to process the bizarre encounter, Castiel flicked his head in the opposite direction, finding a short, kind-looking woman with cascading blond hair and glasses standing in the space between the lobby and the hall. Her small frame was shaped by an elegant blue dress and white cardigan, and she smiled at him with the warmth of a campfire, inviting him to greet her. He stood and made his way over, shaking her hand stiffly. Physical contact with strangers was probably his least favorite part about acting human, even if this one appeared harmless enough. “Yes.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Linda.” She released his hand and nodded towards the clipboard. “I can take that. No worries if you didn’t finish—you can always do the logistical stuff after session.” Castiel handed her the paperwork wordlessly, just smiling again and giving a minute nod of acknowledgement. She led him to the end of the hall and into her office, which looked, as far as Castiel could gather, very inviting: afternoon sunlight poured in through the window, rays of gold fanning out over the couch he assumed he was meant to sit on and the small table that sat in front of it. On said table was a box of tissues, a water pitcher, and a bowl of mints—therapy essentials, apparently. 

“Take a seat,” Linda said, gesturing towards the couch while she took a seat in the chair opposite it and the table. Castiel did as instructed while she did a quick flip-through of the paperwork in her hands, explaining, “I like to start my introductory sessions by reviewing these forms, as a way to ease into conversation.” The papers fell back against the clipboard, and she pulled a pen out of her pocket. “I noticed that you simply wrote 'having emotions’ for why you decided to reach out to a therapist. Could you elaborate on that?”

Castiel shrugged noncommittally, an action he had picked up from doing research with Sam. “There isn’t much to elaborate on. I am experiencing a range of human emotion that is unprecedented, and I am unsure of what to do with it.” 

“Unprecedented how?” 

“I have not had them before,” he answered, trying to maintain his patience, “and I do not understand why I have developed them. Also, quite frankly, they’re rather irritating.” 

Linda tilted her head, considering. “Oftentimes, we repress our emotions when we feel it is unsafe to express them, due to a fear of being judged or punished. Allowing your emotions to ‘develop,’ as you have phrased it, could be an indication that you are in a position where you feel you can be vulnerable.” 

“I have no vulnerabilities,” Castiel said, confused. “It is not a matter of repression and expression, Dr. Martin—Linda. It is a matter of these feelings coming into existence, and I am seeking your counsel in hopes of finding an explanation for them.”

“An explanation for _why_ you are feeling, or what?”

That gave him pause. He hadn’t really considered the latter, but now he figured that it might actually be a bit more useful than the former, considering his current situation. “Well, both, I suppose. They don’t seem to be going away anytime soon, so I admit that it would be worthwhile to make sense of them.” And then, more to himself than to Linda, he added, “I could control them then, at the very least.” 

His therapist smiled at him warmly, as if pleased by this minute progression forward. “You said that these feelings you’re having are new to you. What makes you think, then, that they’re permanent?”

“I have had limited experience with them before coming to Ea—Kansas.” _Oops_. “Muted, skeletal versions, I guess you could describe them. Bare essentials. But, since choosing to stay, they’ve grown. Insurmountably, at times.” He gave a wry chuckle, once again thinking of his most recent conversation with Sam. “Logically speaking, then, the conclusion is that as long as I am here, I will have them, and I have no intention of leaving.” 

“I would like to unpack this ‘insurmountability’ in a moment, but...” She narrowed her eyes, giving him a bemused expression. “Kansas?”

“Yes. I’m, uh—I’m here on business.” Technically, he wasn’t lying. He and the Winchesters had made the long trek out to Los Angeles for a hunt, one that had been, ah, _interrupted_ by a little mishap. Nothing much, of course, but Sam thought it prudent enough to sit him down and ask if he was okay. He was fine, really. It was his vessel at fault, he had consoled, but Sam had simply shaken his head and handed him the phone number for the office of one Dr. Linda Martin. “Only if you want to,” he had added, patting his shoulder in an unusual act of comfort, “but I think it might help.” 

And so now he was here, because Sam was usually right about things that might be helpful. 

“Do you plan on staying for a while?” Linda prompted. “In L.A., I mean.” 

“Truthfully, I’m not sure. Had all gone according to plan, I likely would have departed a day or so ago, but my life quite often doesn’t.”

“Right,” she murmured, jotting something down. “The reason I ask is that patients typically invest in therapists...a little closer to home.”

“Oh, the distance isn’t a problem,” Castiel clarified. 

“Oookay. Is there any particular reason you decided to seek out therapy while on business, rather than waiting until you returned to Kansas? Something to do with this idea of ‘insurmountability,’ perhaps?”

Castiel frowned, pouring himself a glass of water to keep busy even though he knew he wouldn’t drink it. This dialogue had always been inevitable—it’s why he was there in the first place, after all—but that didn’t make him feel any more prepared. “A couple of days ago, I experienced a...call it a work-related dilemma,” he started, drumming his fingers on the glass as he sat back into the couch. “One of my... _coworkers_ was injured, rather severely, and for several moments I was unable to amend the situation. Another coworker suggested my reaction to the affair might be worth discussing with someone more well-equipped than he was.”

“Would that second coworker happen to be the ‘Sam’ you mention in your preliminary forms?” 

“Yes, actually,” Castiel answered, giving a small smile. “And the first coworker is fine, now.”

“What is it exactly that you do, Castiel?” Linda was giving him a funny look again, as if she was trying to piece together something entirely separate from the surface-level topic of their conversation.

“I work for the FBI,” he replied, before realizing that was probably not something an actual FBI agent would say so openly. “I can’t really go into the specifics, of course.”

“Of course.” She didn’t seem at all shocked, instead jotting something else down and transitioning back into their previous point of discussion. “This ‘reaction’ you had to your injured coworker seems to be the inciting incident for your visit with me today. I imagine that in your line of work, injuries received on the job are not uncommon; what made this one different?”

Castiel mulled over that for a moment, trying to figure out how to phrase the situation without including mentions of his frail divinity. “Most injuries are...simple. Need a couple stitches, maybe, but typically don’t run deep enough to be of any serious consequence. This one had the potential to be unfixable.” 

“And that frightened you.” 

“Yes,” he admitted, almost startled by how willing he was to do so. That was probably the first time he had even acknowledged the possibility since the whole event had occurred. “Very much.” 

“So you reacted in a way driven by terror, which was new to you because such strong feelings are not something you are accustomed to experiencing.” 

“That...sums it up quite well, actually.” Castiel was becoming almost unnerved by the emotional aptitude of this therapist. Though, that was what they were paid to be, wasn’t it? 

“How exactly _did_ you react?”

He started drumming his fingers on the glass of water again, taking a tentative sip just so he wouldn’t have to talk. “I believe it would be called ‘panic,’” he finally said, still looking at the glass instead of Linda. She stayed quiet, encouraging him to continue, which he did so begrudgingly. “Irregular breath patterns, tinnitus, blurry vision.” He cut himself off before he could say more, hating the way the memory leaped to the forefront of his mind with vivid willingness. “I’m sure this is not unusual for you to hear, Doctor, or Sam would not have steered me in your direction.” 

“You had a panic attack,” she clarified, once it was clear Castiel was not going to be independently forthcoming of much else. 

“That is what he called it, yes.” He set the glass down. “A brief bodily malfunction, truly. I don’t understand why he made such a to-do about it.” 

“He was concerned for you,” Linda said gently. “Panic attacks are brought on by extreme levels of stress and anxiety, such as a coworker you deeply care about sustaining a potentially fatal injury.” 

“Yes, but I _fixed_ it,” Castiel grunted, hoping to end the tedious discussion there. It had taken a lot of frantic scrambling, tugging at the tangled mess of his grace that still hadn’t sorted itself out, but he had healed Dean. It was fine, and he was tired of everyone telling him it wasn’t. That _he_ wasn’t. “The ordeal is over now, and the odds of it happening again are inconsequentially small.” He didn’t know that, if he was being honest, but maybe if he said it enough times to enough different people it would be.

Linda wrote something down and then tapped her pen against the clipboard thoughtfully, looking at her notes before looking back up at Castiel. “We started this session with a discussion of vulnerability, which you dismissed as a possibility for your newfound emotions. Is it possible that these coworkers, Sam and...”

“Dean,” Castiel supplied.

“...are points of vulnerability for you?” 

He scoffed. 

“Part of building meaningful relationships is allowing ourselves to feel vulnerable,” Linda continued, undeterred by his less than enthusiastic response. “The ability to let our guard down around those close to us is an important and needed part of being human.”

“But I’m not—” _human._ The fallen angel sighed, shaking his head. “It’s different, for me.”

“It’s only different because it’s _new,_ and, as a consequence, you might feel exposed rather than soothed.” Castiel gave a hesitant nod in agreement. “But, the fact that you have allowed yourself to be expressive around them—your coworkers—indicates positive progress.” 

“How?” he asked, tilting his head in confusion. 

“Surely you haven’t felt only _panic_ around them,” Linda surmised. “I can imagine you wouldn’t have chosen to stay in Kansas if that was the case—assuming they are also part of living in Kansas.” 

“You are correct,” Castiel agreed, uncertainty hedging its way into his voice, “but I don’t understand half of what I _do_ feel, and it is even more perplexing that it is hu—my _coworkers_ who are drawing these emotions forward, considering they aren’t particularly emotionally apt themselves.” 

“I have something that might help.” Linda set down the clipboard and pen and went around to her desk, rummaging through a couple of drawers before returning to her seat and handing Castiel a small notebook. 

“What is this for?”

“To understand both what and why you are feeling,” she explained, “it could be useful to note descriptions of what emotions you experience and when. For example, you felt panicked when your coworker—Dean—was injured, but felt relieved when things turned out alright in the end.” Castiel began to nod in understanding, accepting the notebook and letting his hands fall back into his lap, finding comfort in absentmindedly thumbing the journal’s corner. “It may resolve some of your confusion, and give us talking points for our next session. Consider it therapy homework.” 

“‘Homework,’” Castiel quoted, giving a small laugh to hide his confusion at the term. Linda gave a corresponding chuckle but didn’t elaborate, so he made a mental note to ask the Winchesters about ‘homework’ later. “Thank you. I’ll try my best to keep up with my entries.”

“I didn’t mean to imply it was mandatory,” the therapist replied. “Certainly, there’s no pressure to use it at all. Just a thought.” 

“I agree that it could be in my better interests,” Castiel said. He lifted the notebook, gesturing. “I appreciate it.”

“I’m glad! Speaking of next sessions,” Linda stood up and walked back to her desk, opening her computer and typing for a few moments before continuing, “when would you like next time to be?” 

Castiel gaped. He had no concept of a schedule, ever.

“I have this same day and time open next week, if that would work best?”

“Yes, that sounds most sensible,” Castiel confirmed. Linda nodded, clicking away at her computer for a few more seconds before closing the lid and looking back up. 

“And done. You can always call or email me if you need to reschedule.” She smiled, going to open the door. “It was wonderful meeting you, Castiel. I look forward to seeing you next week.” 

“You too, Linda,” he replied easily, bowing his head on the way out. It felt weird to call her by her first name, like they were old friends when in actuality they had just met, so he resolved to simply call her “Doctor” in the future. Not so formal that conversation would be stilted, but formal enough to where he could keep his boundaries. 

He waved a cautious farewell to the receptionist as he finished that train of thought, about to leave the building, when he suddenly remembered he hadn’t finished the paperwork he had been given. He briskly made his way back down the hall, poking his head into Linda’s office.

“I didn’t finish the forms,” he announced, looking for the clipboard that had since disappeared. Linda looked up from where she was now sat again at her desk, evidently mid-phone call as she pulled it away from her ear and covered it with her hand. 

“Oh! No need to worry about the forms. This is plenty, thank you.” She nodded at him with a pleasant smile, and then returned to her call. Castiel furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head, going to say that he hadn’t even filled out the first and arguably most pertinent page, but Linda was too involved in whatever conversation she was having to notice that he was still standing there. 

“Listen, Maze...”

He shook his head and left, walking down the block to find a bus station.

* * *

Castiel returned to the hotel room he was sharing with the Winchesters to find it curiously devoid of Dean, which immediately spiked some amount of what he was learning was “concern” in his chest. Sam was sprawled on one of the two beds, looking the opposite of that as he scrolled through something on his laptop, when he heard the door click and unclick with Castiel’s entrance. He glanced up, smiling when he saw his friend standing in the entry hall, hands in his pockets in typical Castiel fashion.

“Dean went to get dinner,” he explained before Castiel could ask. Castiel frowned. 

“He really shouldn’t be—” he started, but Sam interrupted him. 

“He’s _fine_ , Cas,” he urged gently. “Really.” He motioned for his friend to sit. “How was it?”

“It was actually quite illuminating,” Castiel replied, sinking into the edge of Dean’s bed. “Thank you, for the recommendation.” 

Sam grinned. “‘Course, man. I’m glad it helped. You gonna go again?”

Castiel nodded. “Next week, same day and time.”

“That’s good.” Sam moved to go back to scrolling, but Castiel interrupted him, remembering his query from the end of his therapy session. 

“Sam, what is ‘homework?’”

To his surprise, Sam laughed, looking back up from his computer with a certain amount of amusement dancing across his features. 

“It’s, uh, something you get when you go to school,” he explained. “It’s just work you do at home, you know? Like a times table worksheet.”

“...Times table?”

“Bad example. If your therapist gave you ‘homework,’ that just means it’s something she wants you to do between now and the next time you see her.” 

“Oh.” Castiel nodded sagely. “That makes sense. Thank you, Sam.” 

Sam just shook his head with a small chuckle, turning to his computer once again. Castiel didn’t stop him this time, instead beginning to rummage through the stock magazines on Dean’s nightstand to find something to read. He found a _National Geographic_ issue and tugged that one free; he had always found those to be interesting. 

A few moments later, the door clicked and unclicked again, and shortly thereafter Dean appeared where Castiel had been standing a couple minutes prior. Castiel noted the relief he felt upon seeing him, and additionally noted that actually paying attention to how he felt wasn’t as “insurmountable” as he had initially thought. He thumbed the journal where it sat in his pocket.

“Wow, good to see I was so quickly replaced,” Dean teased, setting down two bags on the table at the end of their beds. “I got you their version of your bullshit veggie burger,” he said, nodding towards Sam as he began pulling things out, “and you a cheeseburger, bed thief.” 

“You can have it back, Dean.” Castiel made a move to get up, but Dean shook his head and placed a cheeseburger in his hands.

“I’m kidding, buddy.” He sat down next to Castiel, taking a bite of his burger. “There’s fries on th’ table,” he added, mid-chew.

“What, you’re not gonna hand me mine, too?” Sam said accusingly, closing his laptop and setting it to the side as he stood up to grab his own dinner. 

“Thought you were all ‘bout exercise,” Dean replied around another mouthful of burger. Castiel snickered a little, because it was nice to finally have something to laugh at, before taking a bite of his own cheeseburger with a content sigh. 

It continued on like that for a while, banter and burgers and a general good time. When he knew Dean wasn’t looking, Castiel stole glances in his direction, watching him gesture animatedly with a fry or roll his eyes at some wisecrack by Sam. It was almost easy to forget that he had nearly bled out a few days prior when he looked so _lively_ now, nose scrunched as he tossed his head back in an ineloquent snort-laugh (the offending joke going unheard by Castiel), but the bloody clothes still balled up in the corner of the room said differently. Since his Fall, Castiel had struggled a great deal with getting his damn grace to cooperate, and knowing it had almost cost Dean his life was something that scared him more than anything else ever had. What if he wasn’t able to pull himself together next time? What if Sam was run through, and Dean was yelling at him to fix it, but his powers were too far retreated for him to access, and—

Dean bumped his shoulder and he snapped out of it, realizing that his friends were starting on their second helpings while Castiel hadn’t even made it more than two bites into his first. “You think too much,” Dean said plainly, eyeing Castiel’s hands. He followed his gaze downward, finding that his fingers were white-knuckling his greasy dinner, and he bit back a bitter laugh. Yeah, he did. He thought way too damn much. “Case later,” Dean continued, knowing now that he had Cas’s attention, “Burgers now.” 

“And fries,” Sam added helpfully, shoving one such ketchup-drenched potato stick into his mouth. It was a miracle he hadn’t gotten any on the hotel sheets. Castiel smiled slightly, and Dean relented, seeming to have decided that whatever Operation Cheer Up The Broken Angel he had been executing was accomplished. Cas smiled even more at that thought, and he relaxed enough to return to eating his cheeseburger. This one was underwhelming taste-wise, but he didn’t dare say it, shoulder still warm from where Dean had brushed against it. When had he started doing that? He could seldom recall a time where he and Dean—he and _anybody,_ really—had had contact when one of them wasn’t injured or dying. Maybe he had looked like he was dying. _Or maybe,_ he dared to consider, _Dean had just wanted to_. 

The warm feeling spread to his chest, and when they had finished eating and the Winchesters had gone to bed Castiel took a seat at the hotel room desk. He found a pen in the top drawer and took the journal from Linda out of his pocket. 

The situation with my grace is frustrating, but at least I have the Winchesters. I feel good talking to them. Happy, I believe is the word. Especially Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins! I want to say I'll update consistently, but I make no promises. If I do end up being able to keep a schedule, it'll be Saturdays late in the afternoon/early in the evening, because I imagine that's when Cas goes to therapy.
> 
> 🌵 [Tumblr](https://nocxtifer.tumblr.com/) 🌵


	2. Italian Leather

Cleaning up their case in Los Angeles proved much less difficult the second go around, despite Castiel acting jumpy and on-edge the entire time. The creature had moved locations—it wasn’t stupid, after all—but the very sight of it had thrust him back to where they had first encountered it, and it was all he could do to just stand there trying not to flip his shit while the Winchester brothers did the brunt of the work. Whether it was to save his pride or just avoid a difficult conversation, Castiel wasn’t sure, but neither of them had brought up his uselessness as they had packed their things to head back to Kansas. The topic had gone untouched the whole ride home, too, and they still hadn’t brought it up in their days since returning to the bunker. Castiel didn’t know if he was grateful for it, or frustrated that they wouldn’t just communicate with him; maybe it was a little bit of both.

This and other things he was working on repressing when he found himself at his now-weekly therapy appointment.

“Good afternoon, Castiel,” Linda greeted, holding the door open for him as he stepped into her office. “How are you today?”

“I am alright, and you?” He took a seat on the couch again, placing his hands in his lap as his eyes followed the doctor. She was dressed in a crisp white blouse and gray tweed skirt, framed by a beige blazer with her hair pinned up in a bun. She also appeared to be in a great mood, sunlight reflecting off of her smile as she walked towards her seat.

“I’m doing pretty great myself, thank you,” she replied, sitting down in the chair across from him. “It’s always a good day when my son sleeps through the night.” 

“You have a son?” Castiel asked, interest piqued.

“I do,” she replied. “A little boy. He’s quite the handful, but at least he doesn’t fly.” Her grin turned cheeky and she laughed, like there was a deeper joke that Castiel wasn’t getting, before she started giving him that weird look again. It was different this time, like she had solved the puzzle instead of being in the process of piecing it together. “Anyway, enough of me. Did you happen to use that notebook I gave you?”

“My ‘homework,’” Castiel said, nodding. He pulled it from the pocket of his trench coat, thumbing the pages again. It had become a habit for him in the week since he had received it, and the bottom corner had started curling up towards his touch. “It was quite helpful.” 

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Linda replied, appearing genuinely pleased. Seeming to realize that Castiel wasn’t likely to divulge information unless prompted, she then asked, “How is Dean doing?”

Castiel raised his eyebrows, surprised that she had remembered the man’s name. “He is doing well. Our case here was resolved, and we were able to head back to Kansas safely two days ago.” 

“‘Were’ able to?” She frowned, but it seemed more perfunctory than out of genuine confusion. “You didn’t drive twenty hours for a therapy session, did you?”

“No, of course not,” Castiel replied. _I can’t even drive,_ he wanted to add, but he figured he had enough unspoken questions to try and explain away without all the ones _that_ would add. “They were able to head back. I am still here, obviously.” 

“Right..." Linda trailed off, looking at something in her notes, before snapping her head back up again. “Castiel, do you mind if I ask what may potentially be an incredibly bizarre question?”

Castiel tilted his head, giving a slightly stupefied laugh. “Go ahead.” 

“Your name,” she began, narrowing her eyes knowingly. “It’s a very uncommon one, I’d wager. Very... _Biblical.”_

“I, uh...had religious parents,” he explained nervously. “Have. Especially my dad.” 

Linda mulled over that for a moment, nodding more to herself than in response to what he had said, before finally replying, “So, you wouldn’t be the actual, genuine, _Angel of the Lord_ Castiel, would you.” It wasn’t a question so much as an accusation, and Castiel stood up abruptly, muscles tensing. 

_“How did you know that,”_ he hissed, yanking a blade out of his pocket in case the doctor—though, this meant she had to be a fake, right?—tried anything.

“Relax, Castiel,” Linda attempted to soothe, eyeing the new weapon in his hand. “You aren’t the first celestial being I’ve met, and, with the way things are going, I can assume you won’t be the last.” She smiled. “I am still very much human and very much a therapist, to answer your next two pressing questions.” 

Castiel sat back down slowly, cautiously, eyeing her with a careful wariness. “I’m not? The first celestial you’ve met, I mean.”

His decidedly human therapist laughed. “Oh, no, no. I’m friends with two of your brothers, a demon, and I’ve met your mother. The latter is _not_ an experience I want to repeat, woo boy.” She gave a chuckle, like the whole ordeal was over and just something to laugh at now, but Castiel could see her obvious discomfort at the subject. 

“Mom was here?” he still pressed, voice soft and admittedly more tender than he would have liked, because he _had_ to know. As much as it pained him, especially considering this “visit” Linda was referencing had evidently been an unpleasant one, he couldn’t help but be almost a bit loathsome that this _human_ had interacted with her and he hadn’t. He hadn’t seen or even really thought about his mother in several millennia, not since God had condemned her to Hell. It had been for good reason, and he truthfully hadn’t even missed her that much, but...

“Yes, she was,” Linda said gently. And then with a dark, almost sad laugh added, “Rotisseried me like a chicken, I’m afraid.”

“That does sound like her,” Castiel replied, allowing the vivid imagery to play out in his mind in hopes that it would squash whatever yearning he had momentarily experienced for a hug or a pat on the cheek from the Goddess of all Bitchiness. “My apologies you had to endure her wrath. Our mother has never been particularly fond of humanity—I presume she’s been returned to Hell?” 

Linda gave a soft smile, but Castiel could see a hint of sadness flicker across her features. “Don’t feel bad on my behalf. It’s over and done with now.” She gestured toward him. “Lucky for me, I have friends in high—and low—places.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes, trying (and failing) to hide his blatant judgement of the therapist’s choice in friends. “Right. The demon.”

“Yes, Maze! I believe you actually passed her on your way in during your last visit.” Linda was beaming again, and Castiel stuck his head forward, tilting it even further in confusion. That certainly explained the heavy presence—and all the leather—but what was a _demon_ doing in L.A.? Getting _therapy?_

Wait. 

No. 

No, no, _no._

“Maze, short for Mazikeen.” It was Castiel’s turn to be accusatory, setting his jaw as his lip curled. Linda didn’t seem to notice, too caught up in the excitement of her hunch being right, and nodded. 

“So you two have met, then? Formally, I mean, not just in passing in my office.” 

Castiel ignored the question, and her enthusiasm. “When you say you are ‘friends’ with two of my brothers,” he began, voice lower than his usual, already gravelly tone, “to which ones are you referring?” 

“I...suppose I assumed you _knew,"_ Linda said, face falling just slightly. “Especially considering you’re here, in the same city as them.” 

Castiel leaned forward, resting his hands on the table.

“No, but if the King of Hell’s personal entourage is here I can make a rather well-informed guess.” He scowled. _“Lucifer?”_ Linda nodded, and Castiel sat back, wringing his hands. “Ha. Of course. _Of course.”_ He pushed himself to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Doctor, we will have to continue this discussion next week. Matters of great importance have just sprung up.”

“Castiel—“ Linda tried, but he was already out the door. Just as he was closing it, he heard her call, “Please don’t kill him!”

* * *

Turns out “Lucifer Morningstar” had made quite the name for himself in Los Angeles, owner of exclusive nightclub Lux and, curiously enough, civilian consultant for the Los Angeles Police Department. Considering poking around a police precinct without the Winchesters’ legal knowledge (or, at the very least, their aptitude for legal bullshittery) seemed like a good way to get himself exposed as a fraudulent officer, Castiel headed to Lux. He found it to be what he considered to be appropriately quiet for this time of day, considering the sun was still up. After some more snooping, he found the elevator that led up to what he presumed to be Lucifer’s penthouse, finding the private den of sin also empty. Well, Castiel was nothing if not a being of patience.

While he waited, he began to investigate the luxurious suite, scoffing at how very _Lucifer_ it was. The towering liquor bar certainly wasn’t doing his first impression any favors, and neither was the discarded condom wrapper left haphazardly by the piano. Still, Castiel couldn’t help how his lips quirked fondly at the sight of the well-polished keys—Lucifer had always had a deep affinity for music, leading the choirs up in Heaven and humming to himself while he was working or walking about the Silver City. Always humming. 

Shoving aside any fraternal sentiments (those times in Heaven were long over, after all, and reminiscing was a waste of time), Castiel turned his attention towards the left half of the penthouse, declining to explore Lucifer’s bedroom for fear that he might find more condom wrappers. He took a delicate seat on the tawny leather couch, finding it to be surprisingly comfortable. _Italian leather,_ he could almost hear Lucifer say, and he scoffed. He hated that he could recall his stupid accent with such lucid detail, eyes drifting back over to the piano of their own accord. And then he promptly stood up, remembering what was _next_ to the piano. Castiel was sure the couches back at the bunker were hardly any cleaner, but it became infinitely more gross when it was his _brother_ disgracing the furniture.

His focus jumped to the lofty bookshelves next, running his fingers along ancient spines and pulling a few off their shelves out of curiosity. This was a side to Lucifer that Castiel hadn’t expected; as far as he knew, Lucifer wasn’t really the sentimental type, meaning this surprisingly vast personal library couldn’t be comprised of historical gifts, but he figured he wasn’t one for academia either. Maybe his millenia in Hell had bored him to a point that he had actually taken up reading to keep himself entertained—but, then again, the condom wrapper suggested otherwise. 

The sun was just beginning to set when the elevator finally dinged, signifying its arrival, and Castiel turned to face the disturbance from where he had sat himself at the bar, more than ready to give Lucifer his due after an hour or so of waiting. He watched as the doors opened, revealing Lucifer and a woman that Castiel paid no attention to. All of his focus was directed towards the Devil, twitching his fingers as he considered calling forth an angel blade. It wouldn’t kill Lucifer—very little he could do would, if anything—but the feeling of stabbing him might be nice.

The woman spotted him first. 

She yelped in surprise, pulling what Castiel could make out as a gun as she shouted, “L.A.P.D., put your hands up!” 

Castiel stood, cocking his head with amusement at the weapon as he walked towards them. “Your bullets will do me no harm.”

“...Castiel?” Lucifer asked with uncertainty, furrowing his eyebrows as he stepped in front of who Castiel was now surmising to be the officer he consulted for. “Ha! I almost didn’t recognize you. What brings you to Los Angeles?”

“How kind of you to remember me,” Castiel replied, avoiding the question, as he had gotten so skilled at doing. He halted his advance and gave a wry smile, taking in the sight of Lucifer after centuries of him existing only in his unreliable and patchy memory (the multiple wipes he had undergone certainly weren’t doing his celestial hippocampus any good). “Thought that you might have forgotten me after all these years,” Castiel finally continued, tender gaze turning to analysis of Lucifer’s weak points. “I certainly look different.” 

“Yes, that you d—”

Without warning, Castiel lunged at Lucifer, tackling him to the ground and slamming his fist into his face with an angry growl. He grunted as a shot went off and a bullet bounced off his shoulder, eyes flicking back towards the woman for just a moment before returning to Lucifer. He tried to punch him in the jaw but Lucifer dodged it easily, looking towards his companion with an apologetic smile. 

“Don’t bother, Detective,” he said, deciding he had had enough and easily throwing Castiel off. He hit one of the chairs near the bar, grunting at the impact. “It’s another one of my brothers. Castiel, Detective. Detective, Castiel.” 

“So you’re...an angel,” Detective (Castiel would figure out her real name later, along with why everyone in this city was so damn complacent with _the Devil_ _)_ clarified.

Before he could answer, Lucifer spoke, readjusting his cufflinks as he did so. “Yes, he is. Did Michael put you up to this?”

Castiel stood, wiping blood from his mouth where he had inadvertently bit his lip, and gave something akin to a laugh. “You know I’ve never listened to Michael.” 

“Thank Dad for that,” Lucifer replied, giving a small smile. The smile dropped as Castiel threw himself at him again, giving an animalistic snarl as he threw his fist towards Lucifer’s face. Lucifer caught it, shoving his arm down and swinging at Castiel’s head. Castiel ducked and punched him in the gut, causing him to exhale sharply in response and kick him back. Castiel crashed into the back of the couch, using it to hold himself upright as he got his legs beneath himself again. Lucifer didn’t move as Castiel reoriented himself, only springing to action when he started throwing punches again. He blocked each one with ease before grabbing Castiel by the wrists, spinning him around and shoving him into the wall. 

“Are you _done?”_ Lucifer asked, earlier amusement replaced by a voice as sharp and dangerous as a scythe. 

“Why aren’t you in Hell?” Castiel answered in a tone just as low, straining against his brother’s grip. “Where you _belong.”_

Lucifer roared in anger and yanked him back from the wall, forcefully throwing him at the ground. Castiel gasped as he slammed into the tile, air racing from his lungs. He rolled out of the way just in time for Lucifer to put his fist into the ground where his face had been, leaping to his feet as he took in several ragged breaths. He balled his hands into fists and assumed a ready stance, allowing anger to supply him with more adrenaline. How could Lucifer be so _foolish_ as to leave Hell unattended? To put humanity in danger? To put _Dean and Sam_ in danger?

His rage made him slow and he failed to duck under another swing from Lucifer, staggering back as a white hot pain blossomed in his jaw. Another punch landed square on his cheek and he toppled, head slamming onto the floor with a groan. Lucifer grabbed his jacket lapels and twisted him so he was facing up, scowling. 

“Lucifer, enough,” Castiel heard Detective say, but he didn’t want it to stop. This was _simple_ . Exchanging blows with Lucifer was so much easier than moping over his stupid grace and going skittish at something that, quite frankly, was _normal_ for the life he led. 

“My friends suffered for decades at your hand,” Castiel hissed, spitting blood. “The very least you could do is stay in Hell and protect what precious time they have left on Earth by controlling your army of _torturers.”_

To his surprise, Lucifer let him go, standing up with nothing more than a hard glare in his direction. 

“The situation in Hell is sorted,” he said bluntly. “I believe Dad’s exact words were something along the lines of, ‘Hell no longer needs a warden.’”

“Dad spoke to you?” Castiel asked with genuine curiosity, pushing himself into a sitting position. He winced as he moved his jaw, touching it gingerly. Explaining his wrecked face to the Winchesters was going to be a fun conversation.

“To Amenadiel, actually,” Lucifer continued, guiding Detective to sit down at the piano before going back around behind the bar. “I spent millenia after millenia down there, taking my punishment in stride, but he goes down there for two bloody seconds while I fix some things on Earth and suddenly Hell no longer needs a king.” Lucifer pulled three glasses and a bottle of scotch from the shelf. “Not that I’m complaining, of course. Would you like a drink, brother? Now that you have invaded my home, ruined my date, and insulted my intelligence.”

_Date?_ That added a whole new layer to this mess that Castiel was not ready to deal with. Instead, he forced himself to stand up and looked pointedly at the liquor bottle in Lucifer’s hand. It shattered, spraying scotch and glass everywhere. Lucifer swore loudly, and Castiel smirked—it appeared his messy grace was still good for wreaking small havocs. 

But then he frowned, because he could see blood dripping from between Lucifer’s fingers where he had been holding the now shattered bottle. Detective got up and rushed over, pulling the kerchief from Lucifer’s breast pocket and wrapping it around his hand like a bandage after gingerly removing some glass fragments.

“Are you alright?” she asked quietly, and Lucifer just patted her worried hands with a small, reassuring smile. 

“You bled,” Castiel pointed out lamely. He wiped his own face clean of the stuff with the afghan hanging over the back of Lucifer’s couch, enjoying the way it made his brother scowl, before joining them at the bar. 

“And you look like a religious zealot,” Lucifer retorted, setting the three glasses on the counter. “We’ve both changed.”

“Why did you bleed? It’s just glass.” Castiel narrowed his eyes suspiciously as he took a seat. “Right?”

“Yes, well, funny little thing about being on Earth,” he jerked his head towards Detective, “she makes me vulnerable.” She gave an uncomfortable smile in Castiel’s direction, and Lucifer let her hand go to grab a different liquor bottle from his shelf of many. “Now,” he said, turning back to Castiel as he started to pour, “it’s your turn. I’m not complaining, but you’re a far cry from the curly haired, cleanly shaven Castiel I saw before our father punted me to Hell.”

Castiel gave a small grunt and looked down at his hands, which had suddenly become very interesting. The loss of his presentable form was an embarrassing story he didn’t share with anyone, ever. Quite frankly, he had often lied about celestials and Earthly vessels just to avoid talking about it. If he had been one of his father’s favorites, maybe he could have gotten it back, but he wasn’t, and kissing up to Raphael hadn’t been on the list of things he was keen on doing. It still wasn’t. 

“My first mission on the newly created Earth was to chastise Aziraphale for discussing Heavenly matters with a demon, especially when he was _supposed_ to be guarding Eden’s gates,” Castiel started, realizing Lucifer was still staring at him expectantly. Lucifer chuckled, passing a glass of liquor to Detective.

“How was I supposed to tempt Adam and Eve without a distraction?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. Of course this was Lucifer’s fault. “Then, as I’m sure you know, Aziraphale had that sword with him. As it turns out, he wasn’t very good at wielding it.”

Lucifer tilted his head, a small, teasing smile of realization spreading across his lips as he gave a breathy laugh. “You’re telling me you lost your Earthly form to _Aziraphale_.” Castiel groaned, and Detective spoke up curiously. 

“‘Earthly form?’” 

“When we were created in Heaven,” Lucifer began to explain briefly, looking at Detective with a certain affection that Castiel couldn’t name, “we were given a form to parade around in on Earth. That’s how you see me, or Amenadiel. If that form were to be destroyed, one would need a capable human vessel to leave Heaven—or Hell. Take my mother, for example. Or,” and he gave that _stupid_ cheeky grin again, “Castiel. Is _that_ why Aziraphale gave the sword away? Azrael had a hell of a time getting that blade back, you know.”

“And _this_ is why I don’t tell anyone,” Castiel finally snorted, moving to push himself up and away from the bar. “Especially not you.”

“Oh please,” Lucifer chided, passing him a drink across the counter. Castiel took it, reluctantly, and glowered. “You never thought to ask dear old Dad to patch it up?”

“Our father did not exactly favor my existence,” Castiel answered, settling again. “He told me I reminded him of Mother. And, if he wasn’t a fan of me then, he certainly is not a fan of me now.” He took a long drink from his glass to avoid eye contact, and he heard Lucifer sigh, followed by a soft clink of glass on countertop as he set the liquor bottle down.

“I must say, it would be a lot easier to be mad at twink-Castiel for exploding my things and attacking me in my own penthouse than it is to be mad at this...‘scruffy-Castiel,’” Lucifer remarked, and Castiel’s gaze flicked upward out of curiosity. “Scruffy-Castiel looks traumatized.”

Castiel furrowed his eyebrows. He thought he looked relatively put together, all things considered, and he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to the idea that he might not appear as he thought he did. Thumbing the journal in his pocket again, he was about to respond when Lucifer beat him to it. 

“Besides, as riveting as that story was, that’s not what I meant. You have a newfound concern for humanity, brother, one I wouldn’t expect from the ever-diligent ‘Angel of the Lord Castiel.’” Lucifer leaned forward, elbows resting on the counter as he smirked. “What, fall in love with a human?” 

“I _befriended_ two of them,” Castiel muttered back, not liking the look Lucifer was giving him. 

“Oh come on,” Lucifer insisted, fixing him with an intense stare. “What is it that you _truly_ desire from your time on Earth?”

Castiel humored him for a moment, widening his eyes and parting his lips, before his expression snapped into one of loving contempt. “You know that doesn’t work on me, you ass.” 

“You certainly didn’t use to curse, either,” Lucifer grumbled, standing up again. “And, pardon me for being curious. I’ll have you know no one in Hell has ever suffered by my hand personally, but I would like to know what about two damned souls is so worth protecting to you.” 

“They didn’t _belong_ there,” Castiel growled, irises flashing. Lucifer raised his eyebrows at the display of ferocity, and Castiel’s loving contempt for Lucifer’s shenanigans melted into a new anger as he remembered Dean’s face pale and slick with sweat after waking up in a state of terror. Castiel had pretended he didn’t remember it when morning had rolled around, because he figured Dean didn’t want to talk about how his friend had comforted him after a nightmare anyway, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened and that it wasn’t Lucifer’s fault. “Shitty demon deals, probably because you were _up here,_ tainting humanity with your sinful endeavours, instead of down there _controlling them.”_

Castiel tightened his grip on the glass and suddenly it shattered, causing him to jump a little in surprise.

“Would you _stop_ shattering my glassware _please,”_ Lucifer scolded petulantly, and then his voice grew almost soft—as soft as the Devil’s voice could be, anyway. “And, I’m sorry, for whatever your friends had to go through. I’ll admit that even when I _had_ been in Hell in my time prior to coming to Los Angeles, I had been a bit lax. Too lax.” He seemed to be remembering something else, before shaking his head and looking back at Castiel. “Would you like another drink, or are you done terrorizing me and my date for the evening?”

Castiel’s lips twitched into a small smile at Lucifer’s genuine-sounding apology, even if he wouldn’t accept it. Not yet. “I’m your little brother. It’s my job to terrorize you.” And then he stood up, deciding to leave before the encounter could completely sour again. “I should best be on my way, then.” 

To his shock, Lucifer looked like he might argue against his departure, but ultimately he just pressed his lips into a thin line of a smile. 

“Do come again, Cassie,” he said, and Castiel bristled. 

“Do _not_ call me that,” he hissed, but Lucifer just waved his hand dismissively, lifting his glass to his lips as he bumped against Detective. “Fucking prick” is what Castiel imagined Dean would say in response to that, so he let the words fall out of his mouth, too, before vanishing from the penthouse.

* * *

He returned to the bunker and almost immediately passed out from the exhaustion of his trip, rubbing his hand over his face and instantly regretting it as his new bruises pulsed. That wasn’t even to mention his sore, burning back muscles, which were rapidly taking first place for “which part of Castiel hurts the most;” the trip to Linda’s office and back was exhausting enough on ruined wings, nevermind the several added detours to hunt down his hedonistic brother. He must have groaned audibly, because a few moments later Dean was poking his head into the room, looking mildly concerned.

“You alright Cas?” he asked, the rest of his body stepping through the door frame. Shock stretched his features when he saw Castiel’s face, and Castiel made an attempt at shooing him away but then suddenly he was falling forward and Dean was gripping his shoulders to keep him from hitting the floor. “Woah, easy, easy.” Dean guided him to sit down before pulling his hands back, still knelt next to him but not touching. “You havin’ another freak-out? Where have you been? You look like—ha, you look like hell.”

Castiel frowned. “I’m _fine._ I still have business in L.A., so I flew back out.”

Dean flicked his ear and stood up, fixing him with a look of equal parts relief and irritation. “You told me you weren’t gonna do dumb shit like fly around.”

“How else am I supposed to get to therapy?” Castiel asked, folding his arms across his chest defiantly. Dean’s eyes widened a little, as if in surprise, and Castiel guessed that Sam hadn’t told him about his new extracurricular activity. “Sam’s idea,” he elaborated simply. The “as a result of my panic attack” bit went unsaid, but Castiel saw the recognition pass across Dean’s face. 

“Ah,” Dean replied just as simply. “Well, easy solution is you get a therapist in Kansas.” His hand hovered next to Cas’s jaw, frowning. “Didya run into a telephone poll or something? I mean, Jesus, Cas, let me get you some ice.” 

He left the room, and Castiel gave a small, amused huff in his direction. Finding a therapist in Kansas probably _would_ be a smarter decision than continuing to fly back and forth across the country and wrecking his stamina, but what were the odds he was going to find a celestially-educated therapist anywhere else? 

While waiting for Dean to come back, Castiel pulled Linda’s journal and the hotel pen he had stolen from his pocket, opening to a new page. 

Lucifer pisses me off, undoubtedly, but is...otherwise not what I expected. He appears to have limited his fornications to just the one human, for starters. And he solves homicides. Never would’ve guessed that one. Despite these new honorable aspirations

Dean reappeared, bag of ice in hand, and Castiel stuffed the notebook and pen back into his pocket. He would still be pissed at Lucifer in twenty years, let alone the five minutes talking to Dean would take; finishing the entry could wait.

Dean knelt down next to him again and gingerly pressed the ice to his swollen jaw, giving a near-imperceptible frown as Cas flinched in pain. 

“You gonna tell me what actually happened?” Dean asked, standing up again as Cas gratefully took the ice from him.

“You know me,” Cas answered, smiling slightly. “Picking fights, placing bets.” 

“Yeah, okay. If you don’t wanna tell me, that’s fine, too, ya know.” Dean’s tone was light, so he clearly wasn’t that offended his friend was withholding the true origin of his injuries from him. He probably thought that whatever had happened _was_ something dumb like running into a telephone pole, or crashing into the sidewalk. “Sam made dinner tonight, unfortunately, so there's probably nothin' you'd like. We were gonna put on one of the Bourne movies, though, if you wanted to grab a beer and join?” 

Cas smiled.

“Sounds great.” 

He could think of a way to tell Dean the real truth later. 

Despite these new honorable aspirations, he’s still a dick, and I don’t forgive him for anything. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to wait a few chapters before introducing my favorite asshole, but it fit here so here he is! This is one of those few instances where I actually tried to explain away the discrepancies of a world wherein both _Lucifer_ and _Supernatural_ take place [I say, having also added a _Good Omens_ reference that makes everything make even _less_ sense], mostly because this particular one meant I got to write Luci calling Cas a twink. It isn’t perfect, but whatever. For the most part, I’m just going to ignore the plot holes, which amount to pretty much any time Lucifer or Michael appeared in _Supernatural_ canon. I am doing my best.
> 
> 🌵 [Tumblr](https://nocxtifer.tumblr.com/) 🌵


	3. Family Problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warning:** mentions of self-destructive behavior, throwing up, and a panic attack.

I quite hate feeling. It’s obnoxious being hindered by nonsensical responses to absent—or rather, _invented_ stimuli. Spending time away from the Winchesters has not fixed this problem like I thought it would, so I’m stuck. Perhaps visiting my brother was unwise; most things I do now are.

* * *

Castiel spent several days following his visit to Lucifer sore and irritable, limiting his time at the bunker to avoid questions and keep his bitter mood from ruining what sliver of peace the Winchesters were experiencing while they waited for their next case to drop. Granted, that only served to make him _more_ sore and irritable, because he couldn’t drive and that meant any time he wanted to leave he had to use his wings. He was amazed he hadn’t lost them completely, and with the constant abuse he was putting them through it wouldn’t be long before they were shot to hell and essentially useless anyway. 

The worst part was he wasn’t even really sure _what_ he was upset about. Lucifer, obviously, but the specifics of his agitation eluded him. The movie night with the Winchesters had been nice, sans the weird look Sam had given him when he had seen his black eye, but after the movie had ended and both brothers had fallen asleep Castiel had just felt... _strange_. He had a weird desire to be _back_ in Lucifer’s penthouse, not fighting with him but simply chatting on the Italian leather couch over drinks, which should have sounded ludicrous but actually inspired some small amount of comfort in him. Maybe it was the fact that Lucifer was the first of his siblings he had seen in a long time that hadn’t immediately tried to kill or otherwise manipulate him, and it was a nice break. As much as he cared for the Winchesters, there were certain things they would never understand, things that Lucifer...would. 

But Lucifer was also an incorrigible _bitch_ who was responsible in large part—if not in full—for the Winchesters’ traumatic bouts in Hell. How the fuck was he supposed to mesh those two things together nicely? The short answer was that he couldn't, but that wasn’t an acceptable answer, so he was stuck pondering.

It was Wednesday when the exhaustion from his endlessly looping thoughts finally got to him, and in attempting to wake himself up with the black sludge Dean called coffee he spilled it all over his tie. Bemoaning the fact that even stupid human tasks were now getting the best of him, he dragged his feet all the way to the laundry room, undoing his tie and dumping it in the sink unceremoniously as he searched for the bottle of dish soap that was usually nearby. He didn’t understand why _dish_ soap was what he was supposed to use first, but that was what Sam had told him to do if the stain was fresh. Some “life hack,” or something. Castiel really couldn’t be bothered. 

Finally finding the bottle, he squeezed a glob onto the dark stain marring his now-damp tie, massaging it in with his finger. And then he got pissed off, because the stain wasn’t letting up, and swiped a towel from the shelf of them nearby to scrub it more vigorously. 

“Cas?” Sam said from behind him, and Castiel stifled an irritated grunt. He didn’t have the patience to talk to anyone at the moment, least of all Sam “you shouldn’t bottle up your emotions blah blah blah” Winchester. “Hey, man. You’ve been in and out a lot the past couple of days. Everything alright?”

“Fine,” Castiel answered bluntly, not looking up. 

“Okay, like hell it is. What’s going on?” 

Castiel grabbed the bottle of dish soap again, silently. Maybe he wasn’t using enough.

“Seriously, Cas. Did we do something to piss you off?”

“No,” he answered truthfully, stopping in his diligent cleaning to finally look at Sam. “I’m just restless, is all. You humans have a saying about that, and dropping shoes.”

Sam’s expression turned sympathetic. “Most people deal with restlessness by doing things they enjoy, or talking to their friends—about their emotions, if they need to.” Castiel glowered at him. “Look man, I’m just saying the healthy response isn’t engaging in self-destructive behavior.”

“I am not being self destructive,” Castiel argued, gesturing animatedly with the bottle of dish soap in his hand. A couple of bubbles floated out of the top, undermining any air of intimidation he had been going for. 

“I dunno, non-stop flying on wings that we weren’t even sure worked a month ago seems to fit that category pretty well.”

“As I told Dean, that is my only method of getting to therapy, which, might I remind you, was _your_ idea.”

“Using them once a week is different and you know that,” Sam pointed out, and Castiel grumbled irritably. “I’m just—worried. About you. Since—”

“Since _what,_ Sam?” he snarled, a bit more aggressively than he meant to, and he turned back to the sink and his tie to avoid making eye contact. Softening his tone, he continued, “I appreciate your concern, but I am honestly fine. It was never a big deal in the first place, and you _making_ it a big deal isn’t helpful.” 

He heard Sam sigh, resigned. “Alright, if you say so.” There was a beat of silence, and Castiel was tempted to apologize for being so short-fused when Sam spoke again. “For what it’s worth, we like it when you hang around.”

Cas smiled a little bit into the sink. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Another pause. “Dean’s making dinner tonight. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind cooking for three instead of two.”

“I don’t eat,” Castiel grunted. Setting the bottle of soap down by the faucet, he turned back towards Sam with the wet tie in hand, raising it up pointedly. He had gotten most of the coffee out, and the rest would have to be the work of OxiClean and a good wash. “When are you doing laundry next?”

Sam’s voice was flatter now, almost passive aggressive. “You’d have to ask Dean. He’s on laundry duty for this week.” 

Castiel draped the tie over the edge of the sink and dried his hands on another nearby towel, sighing with finality. “Then I suppose I’m off to find Dean.” He stepped around Sam to leave and was halfway through the doorway when he decided to let his resolution falter.

“I do drink, though. Even if I don’t eat.”

He looked over his shoulder hopefully, finding that Sam’s quiet simmering had been replaced by a dopey grin. 

“Sounds like a plan, then.” 

The tension in Castiel’s chest cracked, just a little bit, and he returned a genuine smile before setting off to find where Dean might be. Given that there was no case, and it was the middle of the day, Dean could be literally anywhere; if he knew what was good for him, he’d be eating lunch, but Dean wasn’t the kind of person to keep a consistent schedule. This point was proven when Castiel poked his head into the kitchen and found it empty, giving a small sigh and turning his attention to the second most likely place he would be.

Thankfully, he could hear the rock music echoing down the hall as he approached the garage, meaning that he had almost certainly found Dean. Knowing that his friend likely wouldn’t hear him over the roar of electric guitar, he walked with heavy feet in hopes that he would feel him coming instead. Evidently, it worked: Dean looked up, hair damp with sweat and what looked like oil, and Castiel allowed himself a small smile at the grease smeared across his nose. He walked towards him, and Dean reached over to turn the radio down.

“Hello, Dean.” 

“Heya, Cas,” he greeted, leaning against Baby’s front bumper as his hands stilled. He was wearing one of his permanently stained work shirts—this particular one said “Aerosmith” in big script across the front, under which was a graphic with wings—with the sleeves shoved up behind his elbows, and a pair of ripped jeans cuffed at the ankles. His gaze was lingering on where Cas’s shirt was unbuttoned at the top. “No tie today?”

“I spilled coffee on it,” Cas admitted, a tad sheepish. “When are you going to do laundry?” 

Dean grinned at him, appearing slightly bemused. “What, you wan' me to clean it?” 

“Well, yes. That is the purpose of a washing machine, and I’ve been told it’s bad for the environment to run it for singular articles of clothing.” 

Dean clicked his tongue, shifting so he was no longer leaning against his Impala. “Forgive my surprise,” he said, shucking off his gloves and crossing his arms. “You don’t usually stick around long enough for me to have anything of yours t’ wash.” 

Well, damn. 

The shock must have been evident on his face because Dean wilted a bit, humor slinking from his eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that, buddy. Where’s your tie? I’d be happy to throw it in. I’ll probably do a load once I’m done with my tune-up here.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, turning back to Baby’s open hood and beginning to poke around at things Castiel was pretty confident didn’t need to be poked at. 

“The laundry room sink,” he answered, watching Dean. He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Sam told me you were making dinner.” 

“And? I do most nights. Saturday was an outlier.” His voice was muffled by how far shoved into Baby’s engine it was, but Castiel could still hear the subtle bite to it, the _you would know, if you were here._ The tension in his chest knit itself back together, and he felt irrationally angry. Why did they even want him to stay? He couldn’t even get coffee out of his tie without being a nuisance, let alone be useful on whatever actual case they were about to pick up because the sheer thought of being helpless as Dean bled out again had made him puke twice in the past week. He hadn’t even known he possessed the _capability_ to throw up until he was doubled over in the bathroom of a bubble tea shop, gripping the seat as he tried not to think about how gross _that_ was in addition to the scenes of death playing out in his head. Somehow, being brought to tears in a public restroom by the visions in his own head had been almost worse than watching it actually happen.

“Not that I would know,” Castiel spoke, tightening his jaw against the thoughts whirring around in his brain. “Right.”

The constant motion that made Dean Winchester Dean Winchester halted, and he ducked back out to look at Castiel with an expression caught halfway between apologetic and angry. “Am I wrong, Cas? I haven’t seen you more than twice since you almost ate shit Saturday.” 

“I am dealing with personal matters,” Castiel ground out, “and there isn’t a case needing my attention.” 

“Whatever, man. I’ll wash your stupid tie.” 

Despite the finality of Dean’s words, they held eye contact, and Castiel was filled with an overwhelming sense of loneliness by the olive irises staring back at him. He really did want to stay, but what did he have to offer in return?

“Would you...like dinner?” 

Dean’s voice was awkward and stilted, reminiscent of the box of parts at his feet: a little lost and a bit disjointed, but still purposeful. Maybe even a little hopeful that Cas would say yes. 

“I think—yes,” he replied, his own voice slightly watery, unsure of whether or not he was misreading what was happening. The hardness in Dean’s face crumbled, replaced by a small, happy upturn of his lips.

“Great. It’ll be at six.”

* * *

I’m feeling a bit better now, albeit worn out and weary. I haven’t had any of those human emotional blips since the bubble tea shop. My tie is clean, and smells like honey lavender. I think the Winchesters changed what detergent they use. I like this one better.

* * *

Between his talk with Dean on Wednesday and his therapy session on Saturday, Castiel had mostly managed to pull himself out of whatever hole talking to Lucifer had dropped him in. Dean and Sam had thankfully left well enough alone, not asking so much where he had been but more so just giving him hints that they were glad he was done leaving for the time being. On Thursday evening, they had gotten wind of a potential case and settled back into their normal routine of research and cross referencing, ultimately deciding that it could be worth it to haul ass out to Petoskey, Michigan and investigate up close. At present, they had plans to leave Sunday morning, which Castiel definitely knew to be Sam trying not to interfere with his therapy appointment. It was a kind gesture, but an unnecessary one. He was fine.

Or, at least, trying to seem fine.

He must have reflected his shitty week in his demeanor, because as he walked into Linda’s office she seemed to drop into a state more calm than the bubbly woman he had conversed with at his first two sessions (though, he guessed his last session didn’t really count, considering he had stormed out after about five minutes). 

“Are you alright, Castiel?” she asked gently, taking a seat across from him as he flopped onto the couch. 

He chewed his lip. He _could_ (and probably definitely _should)_ tell her he had had two more of what she and Sam called “panic attacks,” which would likely lead to some introspection he really was too tired to deal with at the moment, or he could blatantly lie and say he was doing great.

An in-between sounded good.

“I have been better,” he admitted. “I made some...reckless decisions, which lead to a bit of spiraling.” 

“Your visit to Lucifer,” Linda guessed.

“Yeah. That,” Castiel grunted. This seemed like a fantastic time to draw attention away from himself, so that’s exactly what he did. “He’s as much of an ass as he ever was. Though I must admit, I am a bit dumbfounded to see what he’s been doing with his life.” He leaned back, crossing his legs. “I figured he had come up to Earth to expand his realm of sin, tempting wayward souls down paths that would end in Hell. But he’s just...solving crime. And in a relationship.” He started gesturing wildly. “It has to be a ruse, right? I mean— _Lucifer?_ The Devil? Living an almost _human_ life in the _City of Angels?_ There is some cosmic irony there that he is trying to subvert, I am _sure_ of it. Something deeper he must be trying to achieve.”

“Why do you say that?” Linda asked, tilting her head. 

“Well...because! He’s _Lucifer_.” 

“You live a relatively ‘normal’ life yourself, don’t you? I mean, I’m assuming you aren’t _actually_ an FBI agent—well, maybe you are. Lucifer is a civilian consultant, after all.”

“I am sometimes,” Castiel interrupted. Linda gave him a bizarre look, and kept talking. 

“Okay. More on that in a minute. But—my point is, you _also_ walk the Earth attempting a human-esk life. Maybe you and Lucifer aren’t as different as you think.”

Something in Castiel snapped, a miserable week that finally reached its breaking point, and his eyes burned blue as his lips curled into an inhuman snarl. His voice lost any of its usual warmth as it reverberated in the space between him and Linda, bearing the strength of the form that always itched beneath his skin. “Do _not_ compare me to my brother.”

She just blinked back at him, unfazed by his display of celestial power. Dean had once told him he was like the weather in the Midwest: clear-skies-sunshine one minute, a whipping blizzard the next. Maybe Linda was looking at him the same way, but saw no danger in what she knew would only accumulate an inch or two of snow. 

“Your family is a sore spot for you,” she extrapolated, still completely calm. Castiel hated that he was so readable and grew angrier, the whites of his eyes disappearing as unbridled celestial energy strained against the seams of his vessel. 

“My _family_ is Sam and Dean.”

Linda gave him a rude smile. Well, maybe it was only rude because Castiel didn’t want her looking at him like that, like nothing he could do would change her mind about pressing the issue. So much for drawing attention away from himself. “You know which family I’m referring to, Castiel. Your avoidance of the topic tells me you have some deep-rooted issues with your biological relationships, so, if you’re done having your eldritch temper tantrum, I’d like to talk about that.”

Castiel snorted, but settled enough to feel comfortable in his skin again. His irises still danced with blue flame, but that was hardly his fault. Linda was the one pissing him off, after all.

“Not much to talk about,” he growled. “We don’t like each other.” 

“I can see that,” she replied patiently. “From how your brothers have described it, the family politics of Heaven seem...strained, at best.” 

Castiel fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat, not even able to give a nervous half-laugh. Family relations were especially strained when you had nearly fucked them all over, on multiple occasions, and no longer listened to a word they said in favor of protecting the humanity they so despised. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he tried. “I already told you. Dean and Sam are my family. I don’t need anyone else.” 

“But it _does_ matter, Castiel,” Linda replied gently. He moved to argue but she held up a hand, stilling him. “I cannot pretend to know what you have done. Even if you told me in excruciating detail, my humanity would likely prevent me from understanding. But whatever it was—you are allowed to grieve the losses that came with it. Your mother, for example.” 

“Don’t talk about my mother,” Castiel hissed, but there was no true venom in it. He did miss her. He missed all of it. He missed when trivial pranks were the extent of what his family would wage on each other, when his father had commended the way he and Gabriel had arranged the stars in the sky, when Lucifer who had been Samael would hum and Castiel would start humming with him. They had never been perfect, but they had been _together,_ and if Lucifer had never lead that stupid _fucking_ rebellion maybe they still would be. 

And then he laughed bitterly, because Lucifer wasn’t even the problem, was he? Rebellion or not, Castiel couldn’t imagine a universe where he returned faithfully to Heaven after rescuing Dean from Hell. He just couldn’t. He had put too much of himself into Dean’s soul to leave, became too concerned with protecting him to care about the other commands he was meant to carry out. The Winchesters didn’t look at him like a war general—they looked at him like a friend, even though he didn’t deserve it, and he would betray Heaven again and again if it meant sharing beer over a dumb movie none of them cared about and eating cheeseburgers and laying awake in shitty motels looking at each other in the dark and laughing at nothing just to feel at ease.

They made him _happy_. Heaven had never made him feel the way he felt around Dean and Sam, even when they had all been together at the start. 

But _fuck,_ if it hadn’t been easier then. 

“What are you thinking about, Castiel?” Linda asked then, head tilted as she looked at him curiously. Her eyes bore a knowingness that Castiel hated, but it undid him at the same time, and before he could stop himself he softly said, 

“I _miss_ them.” 

Linda gave him a sad smile, and went to reply but it was Castiel’s turn to hush her. “But no matter how much I miss them, I would never give up what I have now, even if it meant returning to the start when we were all a family. _Especially_ if it meant that.” 

“You have the chance to have some of both, Castiel,” Linda pointed out, voice still gentle. “Lucifer and Amenadiel are both here, on Earth, and evidently you don’t like it when I compare you to them but—between you and me—they feel the same way. About humanity, Heaven, all of it.” 

“I would _never_ befriend Lucifer,” Castiel growled, setting his jaw. “His ‘lax rule’ _hurt_ Dean and Sam, and probably dozens of others.”

“And what about Amenadiel?”

Castiel started shaking his head before she could even finish. “At the very least Lucifer would understand what I’ve done, or express a simple indifference. Amenadiel—the eldest, Father’s greatest warrior—would never extend such forgiveness.” 

“I think they both would, if you let them.”

“Well, I’m not going to. I forged this path on my own, and I will continue down it as such.”

“And _why_ do you feel like you must go at it alone?” Linda pressed, and Castiel angrily wondered what revelation she was pushing him _so hard_ to have. She seemed to think he was right there, on the edge of it, but he felt no such development imminent; just the renewed urge to break his brother’s nose. 

“How long until forgiveness runs dry, Doctor?” he asked finally, studying her coldly. It wasn’t a direct answer to her question, but it seemed fitting regardless. She stayed quiet, so he figured whatever it was he was doing it was working. “You humans like to say that time heals all wounds, but you are also given the gift of a measured existence, where time _means_ something. Having an infinite amount of it just means that when one wound heals, another replaces it. Celestial beings get bored. They fight because peace grows stale after thousands of years. If the apocalypse were to come—”

He stopped, surprised by the lump that appeared in his throat and the nerves that numbed his fingers. Swallowing, he forced a wry smile. 

“They would cause it just to have something to do. All of this to say: when your siblings have spent the last decade of your life actively working against you, not even counting all the times before that you can’t remember, finding even _one_ who is rather content to just leave you alone, let alone be a part of your life, feels like a trap.”

To his surprise, Linda appeared to take his story in relative stride, and he wondered if either of his brothers had ever expressed similar sentiments to her. He could still see the pity gathering in her eyes, but it didn’t hinder her interrogation. “What will convince you that it isn’t?”

“Nothing,” Castiel answered flatly. And then, with a humorless chuckle, “A small miracle, maybe.” 

“Then make a small miracle,” Linda said, like it really was that simple. “Your distrust is not irrational, certainly, and I don’t fault you for being afraid.” Castiel moved to argue that he was _not_ afraid, but that would have been a blatant lie, so he closed his mouth and let his therapist continue. “But I would be remiss if I didn’t also point out that Lucifer and Amenadiel didn’t have a relationship when they first came here, either.” She gave a small laugh, shaking her head. “I actually met Amenadiel under false pretenses whilst he was trying to send Lucifer back to Hell.” Castiel watched in near-disbelief as a genuine fondness took over her features, listening to her reminisce. She caught him staring, and she turned that same fondness towards him. “I genuinely think you could have them in your life, if you want them.” 

He felt a small something blossom in his chest at that. She sounded damn convincing, and for a moment he dared to think that maybe, _just maybe,_ he really could have a relationship with some of his family. Something genuine. Something _real._

But a fear still lurked in the back of his mind, a nasty feeling that it would all come back to bite him if he dared to trust them. Linda must have picked up on his doubts, because she started speaking again.

“Small miracles,” she reminded him. “Little steps. You’ve already reunited with Lucifer, so why don’t you start there? Amenadiel can come later, when you’re more sure of yourself.” 

Castiel immediately tensed at the idea, but forced himself to relax. If Lucifer wanted him dead, he would have been already, so at the very least he could rule that outcome out. Manipulation was still up in the air—Lucifer _had_ taken an interest in his relationships, after all—but he also couldn’t deny that, by and large, the people of Los Angeles seemed to have favorable opinions of him. He’d seen the way he softened under the touch of Detective, too, like she really meant something to him. 

“What’s her real name?” Castiel asked suddenly. Linda furrowed her eyebrows, clearly not following. “Detective,” he clarified. 

Linda's confusion dissipated, replaced with another one of her warm smiles. “Chloe.”

“She seems nice,” Castiel commented, hoping for further input. 

“Very. Did you meet her?”

“Yes. My visit interrupted a ‘date.’” Although he didn’t physically do the air quotes, Linda clearly heard them in his tone, laughing lightly. 

“I’m not surprised. They’re attached at the hip, more often than not.” 

Castiel chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to figure out how to phrase what he really wanted to ask without sounding intrusive. “Does he genuinely care about her?”

“He does. They both do.” Linda chuckled. “Took them long enough to get together, but they’re both better for it.” 

Castiel looked at his hands. That was comforting to know.

He took a deep breath in.

“What small miracle would you suggest first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for dropping this much heavy shit a mere three chapters in, I was just feelin real dysphoric and anxious this week and that’s how I dealt with it. I promise some of Cas’s therapy sessions will be good for laugh, and the rest of this act should be a bit lighter :,) also, thanks to [this post](https://nocxtifer.tumblr.com/post/640256749312573440/undertailsoulsex-cimness), I now know how epithets work, which is to say that it’s the _complete opposite_ of how I used them in the first two chapters. When I have the time, I’ll go back and edit them. For now, thank you for suffering through that and sticking with the story <3 
> 
> [Side note: I start school again this week, so while I’ll still try to upload every Saturday I may switch to just uploading the chapters as I finish them if I can’t keep up.]
> 
> 🌵 [Tumblr](https://nocxtifer.tumblr.com/) 🌵


	4. Cardboard Cars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warning:** vague description of a panic attack, canon-typical violence.

“‘Petoskey State Park ranger warns against hiking at night as another bobcat victim surfaces,’” Sam read aloud, squinting at his phone screen from where he was hunched over in the passenger seat. Dean scoffed.

“‘Bobcat.’ Jesus. Did they close down the campground?”

“Not as far as I can tell,” Sam replied, swiping through the rest of whatever article he was reading. “It looks like they just posted more warnings: always hike in groups, keep track of the food you have on-site, things like that.”

“Great. You know, when I said I wanted to go camping, I didn’t mean ‘let’s fuck off to the Midwest and try our hand at fighting vampires in the woods in the middle of the night.’” His eyes flicked up, meeting Castiel’s through the rearview mirror. He was stretched out in the back, keeping what camping gear they hadn’t been able to stuff in the trunk company. “Sorry this is your first camping experience, buddy.”

Castiel shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Wouldn’t be us if there wasn’t the threat of impending doom.”

Truthfully, he did wish that they could have an “us” that wasn’t marked by constant, unyielding peril. He rather liked the idea of camping for the fun of it—watching the stars travel across the sky as the night passed, listening to the crackle of a campfire with the smell of pine in his nose and a grin on his lips. Maybe if this case went well they could finish out the week with a few days of actually enjoying Petoskey, but he doubted it. He’d observed that the Winchesters weren’t very good at sitting still.

Dean winked at him through the mirror before turning his focus back to the road, and Castiel grunted. It always bugged him when Dean did that; it made his insides turn to mush and he didn’t understand why, despite having had some thirteen hours in the car to think about it by that point. They had driven for about ten and a half until hitting Chicago, where Dean had thrown up his hands saying he couldn’t drive any further without a nap and they had consequently decided to check into a hotel for the night. While the Winchesters had slept, Castiel had discovered that he hated Chicago—compared to the peace and quiet of their typical small-town adventures, it was harsh, grating, and the wind that had earned the city its nickname always carried the vaguest smell of trash that should have been taken out at least a week ago. 

Despite this, he imagined they would have spent most of the early day lounging around Chicago—the latter half of their trip amounting to only (relatively-speaking) around five or six hours—if he hadn’t shown so much blatant discontentment for the place. He felt almost bad for ushering them out so quickly; Dean had seemed quite taken by the bright lights and loud music playing at every street corner, and had kept going on about “Chicago-style pizza,” whatever that meant. Maybe the brothers could drive home without him, and as they enjoyed a break in Chicago he could deal with the emotions waiting for him in Los Angeles. 

_Los Angeles._ That was another issue with Chicago—it had reminded him of L.A., which he was pointedly trying _not_ to think about. The idea of meeting up with Lucifer again hadn’t seemed so daunting when he was just musing about the prospect in Linda’s office, talking about “family” and “small miracles,” but now that he actually had to _commit_ to it he was struggling to find his resolve. What else did he have to say to Lucifer, really? It was clear that _something_ about him had changed, but that didn’t mean it was enough, or that Castiel was willing to receive his apologies with open arms—Lucifer had still been the King of Hell (and a shitty one at that, who had let innocent people get hurt time and time again), and he had still abandoned Castiel for the sake of a rebellion. Castiel wasn’t exactly eager to think too much about any of it; bitterness was easier.

For now, he had the case as an excuse: he couldn’t leave Dean and Sam alone in the middle of the woods with a bunch of vampires, could he? But once this case was over and they were settled back in Lebanon, he really would have no reason _not_ to go except for his own want to avoid. That was a fine enough reason in his eyes, certainly, but he knew Linda wouldn’t be all that pleased and he was starting to chase after her approval like a lost puppy.

“Alright, we’ve got about two hours until we hit Petoskey,” Dean announced, turning down the music coming through the speakers. Something by Led Zeppelin, if Castiel’s limited rock knowledge was to be trusted. “Rumor has it there’s a neat little diner in Traverse City, if we wanna swing through there for lunch.”

“You can’t wait until we’re in Petoskey?” Sam poked, and from what Castiel could tell he was still thumbing through articles on his phone. “The longer we delay getting there, the more of a mess we’re going to have to clean up.” 

“Consider: I enjoy a milkshake and a burger, and then I have a lot more patience to clean up the monster mess. ‘Sides,” he continued, “they aren’t stupid enough to take people in broad daylight, and the sun’ll still be up by the time we get there. Plenty of time to investigate.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Dean.”

 _“You’re_ the principle of the thing.” Dean’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror again. “Any thoughts from our resident angel?”

Castiel blinked. He had plenty of thoughts, but not about lunch.

“You’re the driver,” he decided on, folding his legs over each other as he sat up. “We stop when you stop.” 

“You could just agree with me, Cas,” Dean laughed, gaze shifting back to the road.

“He’s not agreeing with you, because if _I_ was the driver—”

“Shut up, Sammy.” They came to a stop at a red light, and Dean twisted around to look at Castiel without having to use the rearview mirror. “You pick, man. Totally cool if you wanna stop, and totally cool if you don’t.”

There was a mirth in his eyes that Castiel didn’t see often, and he softened. He _had_ been going to complain that Dean was the one who actually needed to eat, so he should choose, but he seemed pretty bent on not going any further until he got Castiel’s opinion. This was proven when the light turned green and he still didn’t move, something he only got away with because they were the only ones on this particular road in the middle of nowhere. 

“I would like a burger,” Castiel confirmed. Dean beamed at him, warm and happy, and turned back to the wheel as he started down the road again. Castiel took that as a sign that he had chosen correctly and re-settled himself into Baby’s leather seat, watching contentedly as trees and fields passed them by on their way to lunch.

The diner Dean had picked out was marked by bubblegum pink siding with teal trim, which naturally stood out starkly against the surrounding buildings, and a flickering sign bearing a graphic of an older car with the same pink hue. It was easy to see why he had attached himself to this place in particular—Castiel wasn’t very good at differentiating between any decades before the early 2000s, but whatever decade this diner’s decor had pulled from, it was very Dean.

So was their waitress, apparently. 

Her name tag, pinned to a white apron tied around a pink dress cut off at the knee, denoted her as “Jolene.” With a wink and a smile, she seemed to capture Dean’s full attention, slipping in compliments about his face, his hair, his _whatever_ as she took their orders: Castiel got a cheeseburger, per his usual modus operandi; Dean got a burger with too much stuff on it and a milkshake; and Sam got a burger that also had too much stuff on it that he further complicated by asking for no bun, and also a milkshake. Dean tried to goad Castiel into getting a milkshake, too, but he insisted that it was a waste of molecules he probably wouldn’t enjoy. 

He _did_ allow himself to be convinced into asking for his meal to come in a cardboard car, however, because he found the concept mildly amusing.

Their food came out a short while later, complete with their cardboard cars and another tease about Dean’s eyes, and the Winchesters promptly dove right in. Castiel, on the other hand, focused his attention on watching Dean’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, tilting his head slightly with curiosity before covering it up by finally taking a bite of his own cheeseburger. His gaze inevitably flicked back up at the sound of their waitress returning, though, watching Dean’s jaw work as he thanked Jolene and threw another flirt in her direction. 

“How is everything so far?”

“Almost as good as your smile, sweetheart.”

If Castiel had been paying attention to anything else, he might have noticed Sam’s eye roll, but he hadn’t been so he didn’t. Instead, his eyes traveled from Dean to Jolene, watching her saunter back to the kitchen to retrieve food for another table. It wasn’t like he was blind to her appeal—her blond hair curled in darling ringlets around her face, slipping loose from the ponytail she was wearing for work, and her smile was quite lovely. She had a traditionally attractive body shape as well, which Castiel knew human men had difficulty ignoring. 

But she wasn’t _that_ special. Objectively, she was just some woman in a diner they would never see again. 

Maybe that’s why Dean liked her so much. 

_“Earth to Cas,”_ he finally heard someone say, and he snapped back to said human men sitting with him. Dean was smirking. “Did E.T. go home, or what?” 

“Apologies,” Castiel muttered, casting his gaze downward and taking another bite of his meal to avoid talking.

“And Sammy thought _I_ had a staring problem.” 

“At least he isn’t openly flirting with her, Dean. We have _stuff_ to do.” 

“Not to worry,” Castiel interjected, stopping what was almost certainly going to be a lewd joke about “doing stuff.” “I promise I have no interest in your latest female conquest.”

“She’s not—Jesus, dude, why you gotta say things like that?” Dean shifted, clearly uncomfortable now that the attention was turned back to him. “She started it, may I remind you. Forgive me for entertaining someone at their nine-to-five.” 

“No need to martyr yourself,” Sam teased, taking a pointed bite of his burger patty. “You do enough of that already.”

“I am not above purposefully knocking over your milkshake, you know,” Dean warned, with just enough joking in his tone that Castiel was pretty sure he didn’t mean it.

And then Dean turned his focus towards him, bordering on accusatory as he said, “No pouting at the dinner table.”

“I am not _pouting,”_ Castiel argued. 

“Then why do you look like you just saw someone kick a puppy?” 

“I’m just—” Just _what?_ He didn’t even know. “Just tired.”

Dean immediately looked concerned. “You okay? Do we need to wait a—”

“I’m fine, Dean,” Castiel grunted, and took a very deliberate bite of his quickly diminishing distraction. Sam kicked his leg lightly under the table. 

“You’re acting weird,” Sam agreed. “Something up?”

“Nothing is ‘up,’” Castiel answered, rolling his eyes up to the heavens that had cast him out in the hopes that it would end the conversation. Sam snorted, which was a considerable improvement, but he could still feel Dean’s gaze on him, heavy and analytical. He narrowed his eyes. “Seriously, Dean. Last I checked, you were my charge, not the other way around.” 

“Friendship goes both ways, you know,” Dean muttered, but he relented, loudly slurping his milkshake. It was a very Dean thing to do, and Cas found himself snickering a little despite himself. Dean raised an eyebrow. 

“What, you like listening to me slurp down a milkshake?” 

Sam groaned, and Dean punched him. Whatever private conversation they had shared in those gestures Castiel had long since resigned himself to not understanding.

So instead he just shrugged, finishing off his burger and licking his fingers clean for emphasis. “The fact that you find so much joy in blended milk, ice cream, and strawberries—”

“They’re _cherries,”_ Dean corrected. Cas rolled his eyes again.

“The fact you find so much joy in blended milk, ice cream, and _cherries_ is amusing to me, yes,” he amended, and he snatched a fry just to have something to do with his hands. Dean didn’t seem to know to respond to that, just blinking in surprise, and Cas wondered if he had been offensive. “It’s very human of you.”

Dean continued to stare, and Castiel was about to try backpedaling again when Dean seemed to reboot, opening his mouth to reply when Sam beat him to it.

“It’s very gross of him, is what it is,” Sam corrected, taking a dainty sip of his own milkshake— _Sam’s must be the strawberry one,_ Castiel remembered—to prove his point. 

Dean ignored him and pushed the remains of his milkshake over to Cas.

“Best molecules you’ll ever have, I swear.” 

Truthfully, it didn’t taste any different than most of anything else, but his incredibly focused taste-test made Dean smile, so he didn’t mind.

* * *

Castiel had spent the rest of the way to Petoskey folding and unfolding the cardboard car they had decided to keep to try and keep his mind occupied (this particular car had happened to win the lottery because it was the least-greasy of the three, and despite Sam’s vehement protests that it was still disgusting Castiel had sided with Dean, again, and now Team Free Will had a fourth member). When they had finally made it to their campsite, that action had turned into erecting the tents, which had taken far more brainpower and he had gotten wrong several times on purpose before finally finishing just as the sun had started to go down. Sam and Dean had spent that time gathering information on their case, and with that, they had settled into a small routine: during the day, one of them would stay at the campsite while the other two did research for their case, attempting to pinpoint where, exactly, people were being found after these “bobcat” attacks, and at night Castiel would sit outside and guard them while they slept. Dean had insisted several times that that was not necessary, and he could sit in his tent if he wanted, but Castiel had argued that looking at the stars was a fine way to spend the time they were asleep. Plus, he had had his car to keep him company.

It had taken a few day’s worth of poking and prodding, but the park rangers had finally coughed up the trail along which the attacks had been happening like a particularly nasty hairball, and now there they were. 

In the middle of the night. 

Castiel wished he had that dumb little cardboard car. 

Normally, he didn’t mind walking in silence, but the eerie quiet that surrounded and pushed down upon them as they made their way along the vampires’ hunting trail was starting to get to him. Perhaps it was the fact that the silence was necessary that was putting him so on-edge, but he was desperate to talk, to hear the Winchesters’ voices and tether himself to something in the surreal landscape they were traversing through.

He took all of this back moments later when the silence was broken by a twig snapping under a foot that was not theirs, causing them all to stop with hands hovering by weapons. Maybe walking in an eerie quiet hadn’t been so bad after all.

It was certainly better than whatever dumb fuckery Dean was committing now. 

“Any chance y’all would be down to just have a nice conversation instead?” Dean asked the darkness, and Castiel wanted to smack him. 

The darkness moved, and suddenly there were teeth and knives and, yeah, that was definitely a no on the conversation. 

“Fucking—” Castiel gasped, slamming a vampire that had attempted to claw at his neck into the ground. It went limp, definitely no longer living, but the ones that had been flanking it didn’t seem to get the hint. “—do you always have to taunt them, Dean?”

He didn’t get an answer, which was infinitely more concerning than whatever gruff rebuttal he had been expecting. Wrenching the weapon from one of his two present attackers, Castiel slashed one of their heads clean off at the neck and tried for the other but missed. How the fuck had he missed? And then he was flat on his back, and he realized that he was seeing double and his lungs hurt from not being able to breathe and _fuck_ was he really doing this right here, right now, when the Winchesters _needed him—_

Claws hooked into the skin over his collarbone and he hissed, grounded just long enough to roll over and pin the vampire to the ground. He promptly sliced through the creature’s neck, unphased by the sickening squelch that followed, and sat back, breathless. Fuck, the wound in his shoulder hurt. It shouldn’t hurt. Fuck. Fuck.

He needed time to recover but he wasn’t given any, forcing himself to his feet to stop another vampire attempting to rip the veins from his body. What was that, three now? Four? Fuck, how many were there? 

_Focus. Focus. Focus._

Chest heaving, he dispatched what he had figured out was the fourth and whirled around when he heard what sounded like a fifth, knife coming up instinctively to attack. He halted suddenly, blade resting inches from the throat of what was decidedly not a vampire.

“Oh. Hello, Dean.”

Dean gave a fleeting smile, eyes flicking down to the blade and back again, before he breathlessly added, “‘hind ya, Cas.” 

Castiel whirled around and met what he was hoping was the last vampire, grabbing it by the collar and violently throwing it back. It slammed into the ground, and after a few tense moments where it didn’t move, Castiel heard the Winchesters relax. He turned back to look at them, trying to hide the fact that his heart was racing and the world was currently being filtered through a persistent ringing in hears. He thanked the night for obscuring the panicked creases in his face, lest Sam (or Dean, apparently) made some comment on his fragile mental state. 

“Well, that’s that, I guess,” Dean said after a few moments, as if they had just decided on what to order for dinner and not killed a nest of vampires. “Now what? Drag ‘em to the lake? I figure a fire would attract too much attention.”

Castiel waved his hand dismissively, ignoring the question. Something wasn’t right—a warning was going off in the back of his mind, causing him to stop and listen carefully to the eerie silence of the woods. Now that the ringing had faded, he could hear Dean and Sam panting as they recovered, patiently awaiting his holy advice, and his pulse was pretty loud in his ears but other than that? Nothing. That was odd, right?

“Whatcha got your hackles up for, Cas? We—”

“Hush,” Castiel reprimanded, and Dean joined the quiet of the night without a word. There was a crunch behind him, and before either Winchester could react Castiel spun around and sawed the head off the last vampire with the practiced efficiency of a being as old as time itself. 

No one had to know that his hands were trembling as he did it.

“ _That’s_ that,” Castiel corrected a bit breathlessly, wiping at the blood on his face with the sleeve of his trench coat. Probably not the smartest, given he was doing laundry now and bloodstains were a bitch, but it was better than leaving it on his face. 

Also not the smartest because the motion caused him a twinge of pain, and he poked his collarbone experimentally. He gave a shaky sigh of relief when he found it in a better state than a few minutes ago; he was still healing, albeit glacially, and that was enough of a small comfort for him to compose himself.

He turned back towards Sam and Dean, and the latter smirked at him. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Dean said, but it was clearly something because he stepped forward into Cas’s personal space. “I’m just going to have to wash your tie again, ‘s all,” he clarified, and then he had the audacity to grab the stained fabric with his hands to emphasize his point. 

“Careful,” Cas warned, and his heart was racing again, “or I’ll give you the rest of it to wash, too.” 

Dean let go, walking towards Sam. “Who says I’d complain, sunshine?”

* * *

We spent one additional day in Petoskey before returning to the bunker. I had to borrow some of Dean’s clothes because mine were damp from washing the stains out in the lake, and I felt bad about it but he didn’t seem to mind. He also tried to convince me, again, to sit inside the tent for once since there was no vampiric threat anymore, but I managed to get him outside with me instead. Despite his grumbling, I think he enjoyed looking at the stars. He was very attentive when I explained the constellations, particularly the ones I had had a hand in making. I wish we could have stayed longer.

* * *

“How did your visit with Lucifer go?” Linda asked, and her piercing gaze made Castiel wonder if she already knew he hadn’t gone through with their plans from last session. Chewing his lip, he tried to think of an adequate response, settling ( _very_ intelligently) on,

“Ah...you see. About that.” 

Linda tilted her head like a disappointed mother as she gave a deep sigh, but otherwise didn’t seem at all surprised, confirming Castiel’s suspicions. “So it _didn’t_ go.”

“I was busy!” Castiel protested in self-defense. “We picked up a case, so I spent the week doing _that_ and didn’t have time for my sinful brother.” 

“I’m not going ask what ‘case’ you’re referring to, because I honestly don’t have the mental stamina for new celestial information today, but why was it so important you tagged along?”

The million-dollar question. _Because I’m no good to anyone anymore if I don’t._ “It’s what we do,” he answered instead.

“And what do you do in-between cases?” 

“Wait for more cases, mostly,” Castiel said carefully. “I used to poke around and do other things for Heaven, but they...well, you know all about that. Not a whole lot of orders from there come through to me these days.” 

“Surely that’s not _all_ you do,” Linda argued, expression caught somewhere between a polite smile and confusion. “What do you do for fun?”

Castiel scowled. “...fun.” 

“Yes, _fun_.” She shifted in her seat, now just looking slightly concerned. “Please tell me I’m not introducing a new concept to you.”

“Rest assured, Doctor, I’m aware of what ‘fun’ is,” he snarked. “I’ve just never considered it a particular necessity. I don’t get bored enough to need to be entertained.” 

“Be that as it may, your holiness, it’s not about necessity. It’s about wanting. What do you _want_ to do?”

 _Your holiness._ Please _._ Clearly, Lucifer had taught his therapist a little too much about the family sass.

Castiel opened his mouth to answer, and then promptly closed it. It wasn’t because he couldn’t think of anything he wanted—quite the contrary—there was just nothing within the realm of mundane, everyday activity that he could think of as especially enjoyable, and he didn’t exactly have the time to explore any other options.

Linda took his silence as an indication that he needed further prompting. “Okay, better question, what makes you happy?”

“Dean,” Castiel said easily. “And Sam.” 

“...Okay, I was thinking more along the lines of _activities._ Things you _do._ ” 

“Um...I liked camping,” he offered. Linda’s eyes lit up, clearly latching onto the singular piece of information he had relinquished. “I suppose I’d like to go again, if the opportunity presented itself. Without the—“ He paused, narrowing his eyes at Linda whilst gaging how to articulate the vampire situation. “Pressure of a case,” he decided on. “We have movie nights too, sometimes. Those are nice.”

“What kind of movies do you like to watch?”

Castiel shrugged again. “Whatever the Winchesters want to watch. I’m not picky.”

“They don’t let you pick the movie?”

“They do, but I don’t have a preference. I usually just pick something Dean likes, because if I tell him to pick instead he gets all huffy about me not taking our decision order seriously.”

“So you don’t have a favorite movie, or TV show, or...?”

“No. Why would I have a favorite movie? I’m not an avid consumer of human media.”

“Right.” Linda looked down at her notes, doing that thing where she tapped her pen against the clipboard contemplatively whilst preparing some accurate but brutal call-out, and then she looked back up. “We’re talking ourselves in circles, Castiel, and I think this speaks to a larger issue of you not having an identity outside of the Winchesters.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Castiel bit back defensively. 

“It means,” Linda started, ever-patient, “that I believe you are struggling to form an idea of who you are outside of your relationships with Dean and Sam.” Castiel opened his mouth to argue, but Linda put a hand up. “Tell me, how would you describe yourself? And you aren’t allowed to reference either Winchester.” 

Well, shit. 

“I am...good with a blade.”

“Try again.” 

“I am...an angel.”

“You _know_ that’s not the kind of self-description I’m asking for here, Castiel.” 

“I am...” and then he huffed and gave up. “This is hardly fair, Doctor. My entire reason for being on Earth _is_ the Winchesters, and it’s not like I had much of a personality preceding that. Well, aside from bitchy, as Lucifer might tell you. He’d tell you I’m still bitchy, actually.” 

“I know,” Linda said gently. “And certainly, that transition must not have been easy. Better understanding yourself—this new, human ve—”

“I am _not_ human,” Castiel growled.

“Not in technical terms, no,” Linda amended, “but from what I understand, the emotional capacity of most celestial beings is limited. You experience feelings like us silly humans do—”

“I can assure you there is nothing trivial about human existence.” 

_“—even if_ the rest of you is as old as time,” she finished without acknowledging his interjection, which was unfortunate because he had _really_ been trying to get her on a tangent that was not about him. And then she laughed a bit, shaking her head. “Sorry. It still gets me sometimes. The whole...everything. Anyway, back to you—people with anxiety often have difficulty developing a strong sense of self because they spend so much of their time trying to conform to what they think other people want.”

“I’m an angel. I don’t have anxiety.” 

“I’m not saying you do—” though her expression seemed partial to the idea that he did—“I’m simply providing a human example of your dilemma, so you don’t feel as isolated. You are _normal.”_

“There is _nothing_ normal about any of this!” he cried out, and he put his head in his hands. He could tell she was trying to be reassuring, she really was, but he felt like he was constantly on the edge of crying over nothing and blubbering about what were objectively nothing more than _fears_ and _memories._ He had been a soldier of Heaven, for Christ’s sake! So what if—

He couldn’t even finish the thought, swallowing thickly. He wasn’t a soldier of Heaven anymore, and Dean _meant_ something to him, and that wasn’t the problem, anyway. 

“Apologies,” he said through his fingers. “I am. Experiencing a lot at the moment.” 

“Why do you feel the need to apologize?” Linda asked, her voice light and delicate.

“I...” _It’s not productive. It’s a flaw. It’s taking up your time. It’s going to get someone killed. It’s—_ “It’s disruptive.” 

“Not to me. Like you said—you are going through a lot at the moment. I just want to help you through.” He looked up and found her eyes to be profoundly sad, as if she had come to some heartbreaking realization while he had been preoccupied with his palms. “Do Dean and Sam make you feel as though this is disruptive?” 

Castiel sat on that for a moment. The answer was not technically, no. They had not looked him in the eyes and said “this is obnoxious, Cas, knock it off,” but he didn’t need them to—it was plain enough. It was in how they had to delay handling cases because he had a therapy appointment, and in how they were prepared to delay them even further the moment he showed any sign of unsteadiness. It was in how they were treating him like glass, as if him crying was as bad as him getting stabbed. And—and he couldn’t _fault_ them for that, could he? They cared about him, undoubtedly, but they needed him to be put together. That’s what his relationship to them hinged upon: his grace, his celestial strength. That’s what they expected from him, and it’s not their fault he was failing them now. 

“You’ve been thinking for too long,” Linda said, not unkindly. “It’s clear to me that you care deeply about the Winchesters, and they care very deeply about you. However, it isn’t fair to you if they’re isolating you on the basis that—”

“They’re not,” Castiel interrupted. “I have a certain role to fill, and I am failing to fill it. That’s hardly their fault.”

Linda tilted her head. She had that sad look again, and he had to look away because it was too much. “Do you really think that?”

“I don’t want to have this conversation right now,” Castiel said flatly. 

“Castiel—”

 _“Please.”_ He was practically begging, which would have embarrassed him at any other time but right now he was so desperate to _not_ talk about this that he didn’t care. He didn’t have the energy to articulate the reason it was _his_ fault, not theirs, and what energy he did have was going to his tensing muscles to bolt if Linda continued to press.

Instead, she just sighed, giving him the sense that he had won—for now, at least. “Alright. I’ll let it go for the time being. But,” and her expression turned therapist-y again, “it truly is okay to put yourself first sometimes, Castiel. You are as much a person they are, which is why I’m pushing you so hard to figure out your identity as an _individual._ I think it’ll help.” 

And, yeah, she did have a point there—he could concede that much. He voiced his agreement and Linda broke into one of her signature smiles, evidently pleased by him. He still wasn’t used to that, her blinding joy whenever he made objectively minute progressions forward, but he liked it; something to be proud of that wasn’t based in war or blood.

“I have some easy homework for you, then,” Linda said. “I want you to find a favorite _something_. TV show, movie, book, whatever...what did you say? ‘Human media?’” He gave a small laugh, signaling that, yes, that was what he had said. “Whatever piece of ‘human media’ tickles your fancy. And don’t tell me nothing does, because Amenadiel said the same thing but then I found him absolutely _devouring_ episodes of _Gilmore Girls._ So, you’d be a liar, in short.” She grinned at him, and he let himself give a small smile in return. 

“Amenadiel likes _Gilmore Girls?”_

“Eats it _up._ Please poke him about it if and when you visit. He thinks he does a good job keeping it secret, but I tell you, everyone in the L.A.P.D. knows about it at _least.”_ She tilted her head thoughtfully. “That may be Lucifer’s fault, though.” 

“Not shocking,” Castiel agreed. Hearing someone talk so casually about Lucifer made him feel...well, maybe not _better,_ but it certainly eased him a bit. With that, he relaxed into the rest of their conversation, absentmindedly planning out the next week in his head.

Finding something he liked would be easy enough, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get out! As you can probably guess, I could not keep up after school started, haha. Updates are definitely going to be more haphazard until I finish the semester (and beyond, if my workplace opens up again), but unless something changes I'm still in it for the long haul :,)
> 
> Fun fact for you, stressful (?) fact for me, this chapter does not exist in my outline, which is part of why it took so fucking long to get through (that, and I rewrote the diner scene at least three separate times). The concept came to me in a dream—the “concept” being “give Dean an opportunity to make a joke about washing Cas’s tie again”—and I woke up and was like “ok sounds good” and decided to shoehorn it in and deal with the aftermath later; that’s mostly a joke. I figured what comes in later chapters needed more set-up, and I also wanted an excuse to be bit self-indulgent, lmao. 
> 
> If you wanna see the less-polished products of my brain rot (or my art), feel free to poke me on Tumblr!
> 
> 🌵 [Tumblr](https://nocxtifer.tumblr.com/) 🌵


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